


The Devil Still Walks

by MothTale



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Foggy Nelson Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Mild Gore, POV Foggy Nelson, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MothTale/pseuds/MothTale
Summary: For the following prompt:Matt is dead. Natural causes. Foggy knows this. He saw the body.But the Devil of Hell's kitchen still walks the streets. Foggy sees it, and knows that it is wrong.It looks like sin.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stumbled across [this prompt](https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/8773.html?thread=17923653#cmt17923653) and it spoke to me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Foggy’s hands are shaking.

It’s worse now than it was before, now that’s he’s sat down, alone, in his apartment. Now that he’s had time to think, to replay everything back in his mind.

He’s not shaking because of the memory of the knife, waved in front of his face.

He’s shaking because of who saved him from it.

\--

In the end everything Foggy had feared would happen, from the moment he realised it was Matt bleeding on his apartment floor in that goddamned suit, never did.

Matt died as Matthew Murdock. Collapsed on the street less than a block away from the office. Foggy might even have heard the sirens on the ambulance which took him away.

Heard and ignored -- because there were always sirens in this city. Wasn’t that the whole problem for Matt?

The doctors told Foggy it was an aneurysm. A burst blood vessel in Matt’s brain. Nothing that could have been done.

Of course there were questions about the old injuries, and Foggy, numb and floating, somehow stitched together an excuse made up of clumsiness -- _didn’t like to accept help from anyone_ \-- and a freaky, but totally consensual sexlife -- _what, a blind guy can’t be into BDSM?_ \-- which seemed to put an end to it.

_Wow, Matt’s going to be so mad at me_, Foggy remembered thinking, before it hit him that Matt wouldn’t be mad, because Matt was dead.

He remembered sobbing after that.

\--

Foggy ended up organising the funeral.

He didn’t have to -- one of the nuns from the orphanage had called and said she would be happy to make the arrangements. And he’d been tempted to let her. But the thing was, before Daredevil, there’d have been no question about it.

The sickest part was that he felt cheated somehow. Had been preparing himself for the inevitable -- for a detective to hold up a picture of a mangled corpse in red body armour asking ‘Do you know this man?’ Had been prepared to act shocked, disbelieving, to distance himself. Now he had to stand up, to honour the memory of a friend he’d only half known.

There was a decent turn-out, and Matt would have been surprised to find so many people who cared about him. There were nuns and lawyers, long-retired boxers and shop-keepers. Locals and outsiders.

The priest who led the service had clearly known Matt -- Matthew, to him. It helped. By the end, some of the anger had faded and Foggy was simply left with the loss.

\--

His phone is in his hand, but he can’t think who to call.

The police. Karen. Matt’s nurse friend.

The first is the most logical. Foggy was almost killed tonight, would’ve been if not for--

Karen offers comfort. But she doesn’t know the truth. Doesn’t know why a run-in with the Man in the Mask is so important. So impossible. So terrifying.

The nurse -- Claire -- is the only one who knows Matt Murdock is the Devil. But there’s been no contact since the funeral, and even then it was only a nod, a simple acknowledgement of what they both shared.

Still, Foggy hesitates over the number. Wants so badly to call her, to tell her what he saw.

_Blood in his teeth. Grinning like--_

It might just be a copycat. Maybe Matt had a protege, or a sidekick Foggy didn’t know about. Someone to take on the title.

Maybe Foggy just met Daredevil 2.0.

Except he knows that’s bullshit.

_The head tilt -- just like Matt used to do._

Did he remember to lock the door?

He forgets about the phone and stumbles towards the front door. Makes sure he has the deadbolt on. Checks all the windows are sealed.

He’ll have to get better locks, for the windows, or else just nail them shut.

Of course, if Matt’s a ghost now then locks aren’t going to do shit.

But ghosts don’t have fists. And they can’t throw punches which make sounds like flesh and blood. Can’t cave a man’s head in against the wall of an alley.

Foggy stops, with a hand over his mouth.

He’s fought back nausea three times already, he can do it again.

Staring out the window he focuses on the rooftops, unsure of what exactly he’ll do if he sees the silhouette of a pair of horns.

Open the window and invite him in. Or try and run. Hide and pray his heartbeat won’t give him away.

Because Matt is dead — Foggy knows. He saw him, felt his skin and there was nothing behind it. No heartbeat. No warmth.

And yet the Devil still walks in Hell’s Kitchen.

Foggy closes the curtains and turns away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

Foggy goes to Matt’s apartment.

The rent is still paid up until the end of the month, and even then Foggy can’t see the landlord having an easy time selling the place. Not with the giant, neon eyesore right outside.

Foggy’s been meaning to go back, to organise Matt’s things. He’s tried a few times, but it’s like his chest is a raw wound and just being in Matt’s space makes it bigger, and angrier, until it’s like all Foggy is is the wound his best friend left behind.

He’s breathing hard before he even makes it to the closet, where the one possession Matt bothered putting in his will still sits.

Foggy hasn’t even looked at it. Too painful.

But he has to now.

The false bottom on the trunk slides out easily, and Foggy comes face to face with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The mask is sitting atop his folded-up skin, and Foggy doesn’t mean to touch it — God, if he had a match he’d burn the whole lot right now — but once his fingers brush the fabric he grips tight and draws the suit towards him.

It takes him a moment to remember why he’s here, because all his brain can think right now is _Matt!_

He wore this suit, bled on it, probably felt at home in it. More at home than he did in anything else.

It still being here is significant, but Foggy can’t think why right now.

His head is just throbbing with thoughts of Matt — his smile, his voice. It hurts like nothing else, spiralling away into Foggy’s head, running through it like roots.

When he leaves, he takes the trunk with him.

He puts it in his own closet, hidden at the back under a pile of old coats. He tries to forget it’s there, but never really does. He can feel it, the weight of it. It’s like there’s a body hidden in his apartment, and Foggy’s just waiting for it to tap on the closet door and ask to be let out.

—

Daredevil still makes the newspapers, even if he’s not always on the front page.

Foggy circles articles — _‘Daredevil’ stops armed robbers. ‘Daredevil’ foils kidnapping_. He’s got a folder full of clippings.

He’s started thinking maybe Matt faked his death. And if that’s the case then Foggy is _done_. Friendship well and truly over. No chance of reconciliation.

But then things get weird.

Or weirder.

—

Brett stops by.

Foggy’s first thought is that the police have somehow found out about the suit in the trunk, and have come to haul him in (and they are going to get so much more than they bargained for when Foggy tells them Daredevil’s a dead man).

But then he notices that Brett’s not in uniform.

‘Hey,’ Brett says, like they’re friends. And Foggy recognises that tone of voice — he’s been hearing it a lot lately. Like he’s made of glass.

_— most people seem to dance around me like I’m made of glass—_

‘Come in,’ Foggy says, and he knows the smile is a barely disguised grimace but he doesn’t care.

‘How’ve you been?’

So, they’re doing small talk. Foggy can handle small talk.

‘What do you want?’

Okay, maybe he can’t.

Brett sighs, but looks like he expected as much.

‘I..uh, wanted to ask you if you’ve heard from ‘Daredevil’ lately.’ He says the name like it pains him, air-quotes and everything. ‘It’s a longshot, I know, but your firm had dealings with him in the past…’

‘He hasn’t popped up with anymore incriminating evidence on local crimelords, if that’s what you’re asking. And aren’t you off-duty right now?’

‘I’m not asking on behalf of the precinct, Nelson, I’m asking ‘cause I’m concerned. People are scared.’

And now Foggy’s scared too.

‘What do you mean?’

Brett heaves another sigh, looking awkward and hesitant, and Foggy’s so sick of people not telling him things — _important_ things — that he almost wants to reach out and shake him.

‘We’ve been getting reports of people being saved by Daredevil, y’know, like normal. But the thing is— look, before, all we had to do was check hospitals or if we were lucky the guys would be too beat up to move far. Now, it’s like the numbers don’t match up. Witness says three guys, we find one. If we even find anyone at all. Nelson, none of what I’m saying now leaves this room, you hear me? I just— I talked to my sergeant, but he doesn’t want to know. Got better things to do, and it’s not like we can spare the manpower after Fisk.

‘Now, I don’t like Daredevil, but he never killed anyone that I heard of. Beat them to shit, sure, but never killing. Something’s off here. And I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ve been talking to people — informants — and our local vigilante has them close to shitting their collective pants. Worse than before even.’

Brett draws a hand over his face, and Foggy can plainly see he’s shook. Him, an honest cop in a seriously corrupt precinct. Patrolling the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. _He_ is shook.

‘The last guy I talked to said his cousin was involved in some gang shit. Took part in an armed robbery. He came to his house freaked the hell out, talking about Daredevil chasin’ him. My guy got him to calm down, but he was still spooked. Last thing he remembered his cousin saying was ‘he’s coming for me’. Well, he told him Daredevil’s just a guy and not to worry. Daredevil’s got bigger fish to fry.

‘Next day he comes out of his room and his cousin’s not on the couch where he left him. Guy flat-out disappeared. No calls, no texts. The informant hasn’t seen him for a week now. Reckons ‘Daredevil took him’, like he’s some bogeyman. Usually I’d just shrug this off but...I can’t. Something just doesn’t feel right about all this.’

Foggy’s caught between relief (_It’s not just me, someone else—_) and a cold fear in his gut.

‘I haven’t...talked to him,’ he says.

‘Well, I knew it was a longshot,’ Brett says. ‘I, uh, also wanted to offer my condolences about Murdock. I...we didn’t get to talk at the funeral. I know it must be rough, losing a friend like that. Just wanted you to know I sympathise.’

Foggy’s used to this now. He’s got the polite smile and nod down pat.

‘Thanks Brett. I appreciate it.’

Brett finally leaves and Foggy stands in the middle of his apartment, his mind whirling and storming with dark possibilities.

He grabs his coat and heads for the front door.

—

It’s long past dark by the time Foggy makes it to the graveyard where Matt’s buried.

If he’d thought ahead he would have bought a flashlight, and it’s a good thing his phone was already in his coat pocket or he’d have nothing to see by.

There are lights by the entrance, and along the fence, but here in the middle of the jumble of tombstones there’s nothing.

He’s almost there when it occurs to him to be scared. Well, more scared. The sharp, adrenaline spiking fear rather than the slow, cold dread which he’s been carrying around for weeks now. Since Daredevil saved him while Matt was fresh in the ground.

He’s walking through a graveyard. At night. This is the stuff of childhood nightmares, of ghost stories like his mom used to tell around Halloween.

He stubs his toe on a flat gravestone, and almost stumbles through several piles of offerings. Flowers. Stuffed toys. Candles. At the rate he’s going he’s going to have a whole chorus of pissed off ghosts wanting at him for disrespecting their resting site.

None of that matters to him right now, though. He just has to see Matt.

Not literally, of course. God, he doesn’t want to think what state Matt’s in right now, if he is still down there.

His eyes are probably gone by now.

Skin discoloured, dark with decay. Insides drained of blood and pumped full of embalming fluid.

Maybe still recognisable as Matt, but also...not.

The grave seems to jump out at him, the light from his phone bouncing off the shiny new tombstone. The church paid for it. Foggy offered what he could, but his finances are shot right now. Both him and Karen are actively looking for other jobs. Marci’s mentioned something about her firm maybe hiring, and Karen’s shown an interest in journalism. She’s looking at maybe working freelance for a while. She’s the one who wrote Matt’s obituary. It was good — Foggy’s no expert on obituaries, but it was...good. Something almost poetic about how the words flowed together. Foggy tried to focus on that rather than the facts of Matt’s too short life.

The weather hasn’t had a chance to eat away at the words, to roughen up the edges.

Foggy reaches out and touches the words, runs a finger over the ‘M’ on Matthew. The wound expands for a moment, so heavy it’s a wonder Foggy doesn’t drop to his knees under the weight of it.

He pulls his hands away and looks down at the ground.

The dirt is packed down and hard. Shoots of young grass springing up, so green it’s sickening.

The world is already growing over the space where Matt Murdock used to be.

It’s clear the grave hasn’t been disturbed. No one’s been here and dug up Matt’s corpse to pull some Frankenstein shit.

Foggy’s left with the possibility that it wasn’t Matt in the coffin, that someone snatched him from the morgue and…

_And what?_

Resurrected him?

Well, if aliens can rain down through a portal in the middle of New York then raising the dead isn’t that much of a stretch.

‘No. No way…’ Foggy moans.

But it’s the only way to be sure.

Foggy sobs as he comes to a realisation.

He’s going to have to dig his best friend up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments (especially comments) fuel me.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens some more...

Two nights later Foggy’s sat in his apartment. He’s covered in dirt. From the knees down his pants are solid with mud, dry and crumbling. He’s left a trail of it over the carpet.

He looks down like he’s coming out of a trance, sees the dirt he’s smearing over the couch. Gets up, tries to think of what he needs to do next.

Clean the couch, the carpet, or himself?

Foggy’s not sure he’s got the strength to scrub every last piece of dirt from under his fingernails right now. It’ll be there tomorrow, a reminder of what he’s done. What he had to do.

But a shower; warm water and soap, sounds nice.

He staggers to the bathroom and flicks on the light, catches sight of his face in the mirror. There’s dirt in his hair, on his face, a clump of it in his left eyebrow.

Foggy turns on the shower head, lets the water run. He wants it good and hot before he steps under it.

Peeling off the damp clothes is a necessary evil. He does it as quick as he can manage before he climbs into the tub.

The water turns dark, clumps of mud trailing around the drain, scattering.

He aches. His shoulders. His back. The muscles burn with the memory of shovelling earth up and away, over and over, before he saw the coffin lid.

Foggy groans, can’t stay standing. He sits in the tub and lets the water hit his back and tries not to think of the shrivelling thing in the casket he broke open.

But ‘thing’ isn’t right. Because Foggy knew who it was. Would recognise those cheekbones even without—

His stomach lurches, and he throws up over his legs, the water washing it all on down the drains.

Foggy knows he’s not going to be forgetting the scene in that coffin. Even if it fades from the front of his brain it’ll be there in his dreams.

He sets to work removing every trace he can of the graveyard from his body.

\--

He still can’t forget, even two nights later in Josie’s bar, half-way to incoherence.

He was right about his nails -- he can still see specks of dirt under them and in the spaces down the side of the nail. Hopefully it’s real dirt and he’s not going all Lady Macbeth, finding imaginary stains as a metaphor for his guilt.

‘Think you’ve had enough,’ Josie says, when he tries to ask for another...whatever it is he’s been drinking. He’s forgotten. There doesn’t seem to be an eel in it this time at least.

Foggy knows better than to argue, even three sheets to the wind like he is now.

‘Need me to call you a cab, kid?’

The tough, old battleaxe persona departs for a moment, but Foggy’s too drunk to really appreciate it.

Shaking his head is a mistake. It’s like his skull is a bell, swinging wildly as something inside it tolls. He almost slides off the barstool, but catches himself on the bar.

‘Nah, I-I’ll walk.’

\--

When someone tries to mug him this time, Foggy laughs.

Not least because his wallet is practically empty and he’s in casual clothes looking like he barely makes minimum wage. (And the irony is, even in a suit he’s barely making money). But because it’s like this guy hasn’t heard about Daredevil.

‘He’s not human,’ Foggy says, or thinks he says. ‘I don’t know what he is, but he isn’t human.’

The kid, because Foggy may not be able to see straight but he can hear that voice cracking, does not like being laughed at.

At least it’s a punch rather than a stab, and Foggy doesn’t really even feel the pain. Mostly he just feels the vibration as his brains toll around his skull again.

The guy rifles through his pockets, snatches his wallet but Foggy’s lying on the pocket which has his phone, and the mugger can’t be bothered to roll him. Foggy hears his sneakers pounding the sidewalk as he runs.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ he mutters against the concrete pressing into his cheek.

\--

He apparently tells Karen she is an angel/goddess/saint, an embarrassing number of times over the course of their journey from the sidewalk, where Foggy almost took up residence (standing up was hard, okay), to Foggy’s flat.

She texts him the next morning, to inform him of this fact, and also to tell him to take the day off and maybe go down to the precinct to report the mugging. She promises to come by in the evening with soup, and the mere idea of food has Foggy vomiting into a trash can -- something he has not done since college.

He does as she says, even though he feels awful (the combined forces of a hangover and a mild concussion -- he probably should have gone to the hospital last night). She’s probably worried about him. Nothing says ‘not coping’ like getting blackout drunk and having to be peeled off the sidewalk by your employee. He hopes he didn’t say anything weird -- about Matt and ghosts and demons. At least he’s ruled zombies out already.

‘Jesus, Nelson, you look like you lost a fight with the Hulk,’ Brett says.

‘Actually it was a mugger and some sidewalk.’

\--

There’s not much to tell. Other than the guy’s apparent age, Foggy can’t really provide them with a description. There’s just forms to fill in, and Foggy needs to make some phonecalls -- cancelling credit cards, getting new IDs. There’s a few photos of his nieces and nephews he’ll miss, but otherwise he didn’t lose anything of value. Not even his dignity -- that one was already gone long before.

‘You gotta help me!’ someone says, panting hard.

Foggy looks around.

He knows fear when he sees it, knows when someone is cornered. And this man looks like he’s cornered, or at least he thinks he is.

The man runs up to the desk, and he’s limping -- dragging his left leg behind him slightly. There are bruises on his face, a black eye. Every cop in the place is staring at him, probably sensing the same cornered animal feeling this guy is giving off. He’s not holding a weapon that Foggy can see, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one.

‘Please, you gotta help me. He’s after me--you gotta--! I can give you people, I-I know lots of guys. Whatever you need to know. I’m in good with the Irish, just please, Jesus Christ, please help me.’

He sobs.

A cop approaches and starts trying to calm the guy down. Maybe she asks the man who’s after him, because the next thing Foggy hears is the guy screaming about the Devil.

‘He’s after me. God help me, he’s after me.’

\--

Foggy’s not sure what time Claire’s shift starts, but he calls her the minute he gets back home. It almost goes to voicemail, but at the last moment a woman’s voice answers.

‘Who is this?’

She sounds like she’s in a rush, and Foggy thinks maybe he’s caught her as she leaves for work.

‘Hi, Foggy Nelson. We had a mutual friend who--’

‘Listen, Foggy, I’m running late. So just--What is this about?’

‘You’re seeing the news, right? You know that Daredevil should not be running a--’

‘Foggy,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. Matt’s gone, and whoever this new Daredevil is he hasn’t landed in my dumpster yet, which is fine by me.’

‘It’s not a new guy,’ Foggy says. ‘I’ve seen him, he...he moves like Matt did--’

‘I don’t have time for--Look, I understand things must be hard for you, losing your friend like this, and maybe you want him to still be alive somehow. The best thing you can do is to get yourself a decent therapist. But there’s nothing I can do. Matt’s dead, Foggy.’

There’s pain in her voice, and Foggy wonder just how close she got. If Matt pushed her away or if she made the choice not to pursue a relationship.

‘Please, don’t contact me again. I’m sorry.’

She hangs up before Foggy can get another word in. Some fucking lawyer he is.

He lowers the phone, considers calling back, but knows she’ll likely ignore him. His one shot at getting someone else to believe him that’s something not right, gone.

Until it occurs to him, that maybe what he needs in this situation is not a nurse, but a priest.

Foggy grabs his coat and heads for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

Foggy has his spiel worked out this time, but he doesn’t need it.

The priest takes one look at him and asks ‘Coffee?’

Minutes later Foggy is sat down with a latte steaming in front of him. And he’s crying.

‘Just take your time, son,’ the priest says.

‘This is all gonna sound crazy,’ Foggy says, once he’s pulled himself together.

‘I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve heard a lot of strange things. Whatever it is, I can assure you I’ve heard worse.’

‘It’s about Matt…’

The priest sighs.

‘I know he talked to you,’ Foggy said. ‘I wondered if maybe...maybe he told you--’

‘Let me stop you there, please,’ the priest says. ‘Whatever Matthew did, or didn’t, say to me is protected by the seal of the confessional. I can’t pass on the details of those conversations to you.’

Foggy shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know that -- to know about Matt’s innermost fears, his doubts. He doesn’t share Matt’s religion, but he knows the intimacy of that.

‘No, I...I wanted to know if you knew about...about what he did. The...the suit, beating up criminals, all of that? Because, if you do, then you know that...that Daredevil should _not_ still be running around. And I’ve...I’ve seen him. It’s not a copycat, it’s him. It’s Matt. And it’s impossible.’

The priest is silent, the look on his face tells Foggy he was right. This guy knows about Matt’s alter ego. Probably knew long before Foggy.

_And he didn’t try to stop him._

‘I thought maybe he faked it. So he didn’t have to...to pretend anymore. But I…’

Maybe this whole Catholic thing is catching. Foggy finds himself actually _wanting_ to confess.

‘I dug him up,’ he says. ‘I had to know if he was....If it was a trick.’

He’s not getting the judgemental stare he expected, the look of horror at what Foggy’s done. Just a quiet, considering look.

‘Did it occur to you that you might simply have asked if Matthew Murdock was truly in that coffin? I was there when it was sealed. You didn’t have to desecrate his grave like that.’

There’s something gentle about his voice even as it scolds. Something fatherly, and Foggy feels tears threatening to build up again. The shame and guilt moves thick through his chest.

He stammers over an excuse, but then the priest’s hand is over his.

‘It’s alright. Matthew would forgive you. And I understand your doubts. I...I’ve seen it as well.’

‘W-when?’ Foggy stammers.

‘Two nights ago. In the alley across the street.’ A shudder runs down the man’s spine. ‘It ran off as soon as I approached it, and the way it moved was...was inhuman. I recognised its shape though, and the horns.’

There’s relief, but there’s also a chill.

‘What’s happening here? It--it looks like Matt but it can’t be. Whatever this thing is, it’s got the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen scared shit--scared stiff.’

It. Thing. There’s something freeing about referring to the Devil of Hell’s kitchen like this. Because if its a ‘thing’, then it’s not Matt. And that thought shouldn’t hurt like it does.

‘I’m not sure I can answer that for you, Franklin.’

‘Okay, what do you _think_ is happening here? Because I would have said this thing was Matt’s ghost if I hadn’t seen hi--_it_ beat the crap out of someone right in front of me.’

‘I think...that I wouldn’t like to speculate.’

Foggy breathes sharply, runs a hand through his hair.

‘Could it be a demon?’ he asks.

The priest’s expression becomes darker.

‘I don’t treat that word lightly. Too often, demons are...intangible. Individual struggles, temptation, mental illness. Not physical beings, not creatures with cloven hooves and horns like in the paintings.’ He shakes his head. ‘Whatever Matthew did to deserve--’

He stops himself and shakes his head again.

‘I pray for him, it’s all I can do. Trust in God that there’s a purpose to it, that Matthew’s at rest, finally.’

‘And what if he’s not?’

He doesn’t believe in Hell. A lake of fire with demons jabbing pitchforks into people for all eternity? Foggy doesn’t know of many people who’d deserve suffering like that. And Matt…

Sure, he’d done bad things. Foggy guesses that most of the stuff Matt had got up to with Elektra had been at least a little bit illegal -- she seemed like the type to get off on bending rules, crossing boundaries. And Matt, hopelessly, stupidly in love, had followed her like a puppy. Matt had never told him what happened that last time with Elektra, when she broke Matt’s heart and ground it to dust beneath her spoiled, rich girl heels. Whatever it was she’d tried to get Matty to do it had been too much, too far, at last.  
Then there was the lying. To his friends, to all the people who cared about him. For years. Foggy still doesn’t quite understand, still feels betrayed in some way.

And the violence that Foggy suspects Matt enjoyed on some level, even if he hated himself for it.

Matt’s done some shit. The staff of Metro General can attest to that, to the dislocated shoulders, shattered kneecaps and broken ribs. But Matt _isn’t_ \-- wasn’t -- the people that he hurt. Matt cared. Matt wanted to help people, just didn’t want...didn’t want to hear a little girl crying herself to sleep one more night.

‘It’s beyond my control, son.’

Foggy’s eyes fill with tears again.

\--

‘Ugh, no. You look like an insurance salesman. And that tie? Seriously, Foggy Bear. You’re trying to get this job, remember? Not crash and burn before you even open your mouth.’

‘Wow, thanks Marci. I didn’t need that self-esteem or anything.’

Marci rolls her eyes.

‘Word of advice, when you get your first paycheck, invest in some decent clothes. Your closet is making me sad right now.’

She stands flicking through shirts, making faces at some of them. Eventually she unhooks one and thrusts it at him.

‘Here, this one,’ she says, and immediately ducks back into the closet in search of better ties, parting the sea of apparently subpar shirts.

Foggy hears a thump as one of her shoes collides with something on the closet floor.

_Oh no._

She bends down, and now is so not the time to admire her ass. (But he does it anyway, of course.)

‘Marci…?’

‘What’s this?’ Marci says, sliding Matt’s trunk into view.

Foggy actually feels the start of a cold sweat just seeing it again.

‘It’s...it was Matt’s,’ he mumbles.

A look of understanding goes across Marci’s face, and she slides it back into the dark space of the closet.

‘Now, lemme see. Wait, you still have this stupid dinosaur tie? When would you ever have reason to wear it? Here, this one should match.’

‘I don’t know. Do they do casual Fridays at HCB?’

‘Maybe save the novelty ties for after you make partner, babe. Then you’ll be ‘eccentric’ rather than deranged.’

She gives him a critical look after he finishes up the knot of his tie, pulls his collar back into place.

‘It’ll do. Come on, I don’t like sleeping with an unemployed person. Feels too much like charity.’

Foggy doesn’t point out that _technically_ he still runs his own firm -- because then he has to think about the person he started that firm with.

_\--shrivelled, pale, yellowing--_

Foggy glances at the dresser, at the photo on top of it. Him and Matt, college-era, future avocados-at-law. Bright, full of promise and potential.

He studies the lines of Matt’s face, the way his hair sits on his skull, the shape of his mouth.

Until last week the photo had sat in a box in a drawer, but lately Foggy’s been struggling to remember Matt’s face as it should be. Keeps going back to that night in the graveyard.

‘Wish me luck, buddy,’ he says to the photograph.

If Marci hears him, she doesn’t mention it.

\--

Marci takes him out for drinks afterwards -- she’s paying, obviously. Which also means she gets to choose the bar. Foggy has never heard of half of the cocktails they serve, and the prices have him wincing.

‘You can always pay me back,’ Marci says, and he knows she’s not talking about money.

He’s going to end up going back to her place later tonight -- being drunk and alone in his apartment does not sound like a good time right now.

Foggy’s been having trouble sleeping since his conversation with Father Lantom, keeps waking up feeling like someone’s in the room with him, eyes always coming back to the closet. Some nights he leaves the bedside light on, the dark pushing in on him too much for him to relax enough to fall asleep.

Marci’s giving him a crash course in the office dynamics of HCB, an outline of the feuds and the politics. She’s even drawing him a diagram on a napkin.

‘...and if you smell whiskey around Hogarth’s office, then don’t bother asking her for anything. It means Jessica Jones has dropped by and Hogarth will be taking it out on the next person to walk through her office door. Don’t let it be you.’

Foggy’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

His first thought is that something’s happened to his dad, his mom, his brother. A heart attack. A car accident. No one calls at this time of night for anything good.

‘Hello?’ he asks, steeling himself and hoping.

_Not another death, please, not another one. I can’t take it._  
He hears damp breathing, a sob bitten back and crushed.

‘F-f-foggy?’

The voice is like fine china, a tea-cup shattering on the floor.

‘Karen?’

‘C-can you come get me? I need--need, oh god…Please, Foggy?’

He’s standing up and grabbing his coat before he even has an address. Not sure what he says to Marci, just that she doesn’t follow.

‘The Man in the Mask,’ Karen mumbles, as Foggy makes it outside. ‘He...He…’

Foggy tries to flag down a taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *self-doubt time* Definitely not my finest dialogue, but necessary conversations. I'm not Catholic and don't know enough to write about it in any depth, so anyone hoping for explicit Exorcist style hi-jinks will be disappointed. */self-doubt*


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn’t get the full story until the following evening, because when he jumps out of the taxi and runs to where Karen’s sitting there are red marks on her neck and there’s no way he’s not taking her to the hospital after that.

The cops get involved, and Foggy falls asleep in a chair in the hospital corridor for several hours, until Karen wakes him back up and asks him to take her home.

She doesn’t talk much on the cab ride to her place, staring ahead of her with this look like she’s falling, over and over. Her mouth keeps moving; teeth pulling at her lower lip, lips parting like she’s about to start speaking. Like she’s arranging words in her head.

She doesn’t need him to stay, and there’s an awkwardness there Foggy didn’t remember from when Matt was still alive.

‘Talk to you tomorrow,’ he says, even though technically he means today.

Karen nods, in a daze, and it takes her longer to shut the door behind her.

Like she’s scared of being alone.

\--

‘It was dark, I...maybe I was wrong,’ Karen says.

Of course, she’s had hours to explain it away. Probably had to tone whatever she saw down for the cops already.

But Foggy needs to know the truth.

She’s wrapped up in a blanket on her couch, her hair damp from the shower she’d only just finished when Foggy arrived. Wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled down over her hands. Foggy knows she doesn’t truly believe she was wrong. Whatever she saw, she knows.

‘I was doing research, for a story. An interview -- she could only meet up after her work hours so it was late when I...There was a man across the street…’

Here she goes rigid, and Foggy can see the anger behind the fear.

‘I don’t know what he wanted,’ she says, but she wraps her arms around her body tighter.

She’d had her coat buttoned up, when Foggy found her, up to the neck.

‘He put a hand around my throat, pushed me back. I...I punched him. In the gut. But it wasn’t...hard enough. I thought he was going to kill me, but then Daredevil…’

She frowns, nose wrinkling.

‘I didn’t hear him, didn’t see where he came from. He was just there, behind the guy. He reached out and his hand...his hand wasn’t...it had _claws_ Foggy.’

She’s looking at him like she’s expecting him to disbelieve, to have to argue. But Foggy believes her all too easily.

‘What happened next, Karen?’

‘He pulled the guy off me.’

‘And after that?’

‘It was dark, Foggy--’

He doesn’t want to push -- can’t, unless he wants to tell her why this matters so much to him.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re safe now.’

Karen smiles and nods.

‘Thank you. For coming when I called. There isn’t anyone else I could’ve…’

She sniffs and shrugs.

‘He...at the end, before he ran off, it was like he tried to speak. He came out of the alley where he dragged the guy who attacked me...and he...he was crouched down, like an animal, didn’t...didn’t move right. But it was dark, I...Foggy, this...maybe I was hearing things but...I thought I heard him try to say my name.’

She’s smiling, like the idea is ridiculous. But Foggy can’t smile. Instead he wants to scream. Wants to run back to Father Lantom and ask for a goddamn exorcism, for the whole of Hell’s Kitchen if necessary.

_Not Matt_, he tries to tell himself. _It can’t be Matt._

Matt is dead, and in his coffin, not roaming the streets as a crime-fighting zombie.

‘Something’s really weird here Foggy,’ Karen says, and she’s got a look in her eye. Under the fear and the rage -- a speck of curiosity.

‘Yeah, and it’s none of our business--’

‘How can you say that? He helped us with Fisk, he’s saved my life twice now. Something--Something horrible is happening to this guy. I can’t just sit by and--’ She cuts herself off in disgust, thumping a hand against the back of the couch. ‘If you’d seen him Foggy…’ she murmured, shaking her head.

It’s too late to stop her. Foggy knows that.

‘Just, be careful Karen. Please. I can’t...I can’t lose another friend.’

That makes her pause, but it won’t be enough.

It wasn’t enough for Matt after all.

\--

Foggy rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.

He can feel it again tonight. That prickling feeling as if someone’s there, watching.

He’s checked the apartment already. Twice. Everything is locked, every cupboard with enough space to hide a human being searched.

But still the feeling persists.

He rolls over again and his eyes come to rest on the closet.

At the same time a jolt goes through him -- his heart races. But there’s nothing there.

Foggy puts down the pillow and kicks off the comforter.

He just wants to sleep.

He pulls open the closet doors and the trunk is there, at his feet, like it’s waiting. Foggy crouches down, lifts the latch, and draws out the false bottom.

A hyper-realistic dream. He used to have them back in high school -- in the middle of summer vacation suddenly dreaming that it was the first day back at school, and he was late. Always late. It all seemed so real, he’d wake up in a confusion, the panic and anxiety always souring the rest of the day.

He must be in the middle of one now. Must be asleep at last, just dreaming that he walked across his bedroom, opened the closet and…

His hands brush the bottom of the trunk. The suit is gone. The mask too. And there’s a smell too. The piss-and-garbage cocktail of alleyways. Old blood. And dirt. An earthy scent, and beneath it the chemical scent of embalmed death.

There is one thing in the trunk, where the suit used to be.

Foggy lifts it out and looks at it.

His wallet. The one stolen from him as he lay drunk and concussed on the sidewalk. There are bloodstains on the leather. He opens it, the few bills he had are crumpled, like they’ve been gathered up and shoved back inside. Foggy pulls one out, smoothes it. More bloodstains.

As he goes to put it back his fingertips touch something inside the pocket. Something hard, smooth at one end. Rough at the other, tapering to a point.

Foggy pulls out the tooth and looks at it, turns it over in his hand.

A premolar. There’s a filling in it, and little, pink pieces of gum still attached.

He drops it and it clatters into the empty trunk.

He wants to wake up now. Leaves the trunk where it is and returns to bed. Better to let the dream play out on its own, without him. He’s not taking part in this nightmare.

Foggy closes his eyes, burrows into the pillows and the comforter, and falls asleep.

\--

The first thing he does when he wakes up the next morning is look at the floor where dream-Foggy left the trunk.

Nothing.

His closet door is closed. There’s no sign of a bloody wallet, or the tooth he found inside.

Foggy sighs in relief, sinking back into the pillows.

It isn’t until he’s out of bed, in the bathroom and reaching out to turn on the hot water, that he notices the smudge.

Between his thumb and forefinger, a stain. Reddish-brown.

Foggy remembers handling the wallet, the bloodied money inside.

He’s shaking as he lowers his hand, as he turns back out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. As he goes to the closet and opens it up.

The trunk is there. Waiting.

Foggy reaches out, brushes his fingers against the latch.

And draws his hand back.

He has to be ready for work in two hours, can’t be late -- needs this job to go well, to get things back on track. He doesn’t have time for whatever this is.

He shoves the trunk to the back of his closet once again, and carries on with his morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case it isn't apparent from any linguistic slip-ups, I am a Brit and have never been to New York. I've grown up seeing it on tv and film, but never had a proper sense of the geography of the place until I took a look on Google Maps -- holy hell is it weird to see placenames you've heard all your life, practically from infancy, and see them on an actual map. So many straight lines *shudders*
> 
> Also, for anyone reading my other WIP, I haven't forgotten it. I'm trying to split my writing time between these two fics and my own original stuff as well.

Work keeps him busy.

He returns home only to sleep -- and sometimes not even then. He stays over with Marci several nights a week.

It’s easy to forget about the trunk and the dream (_\--come on, who do you think you’re fooling--_) and the missing suit and the tooth. Or, if not forget exactly, to compartmentalise.

There’s another reason he likes to stay with Marci, besides the obvious. When he’s with her he doesn’t notice the feeling like someone’s watching, that someone’s hiding just out of view.

\--

‘Hey, you live in Hell’s Kitchen, right?’

Foggy looks up to see one of his new co-workers, an intern -- he thinks his name starts with an R. Rob, Roy maybe Ross? -- standing between Foggy and his office.

Foggy assumes mockery is the motive -- and he’s disappointed. There’s still some residual snobbery about Foggy, but so far Rob/Roy/Ross hasn’t been part of it. Foggy had him pegged as...well, ‘not-a-dick’ seems the best he can manage.

‘Yeah. I do,’ he says, sighing.

‘I hear your local vigilante’s gone over to the dark side.’

Foggy frowns and asks him what he means.

‘Well he’s killing guys now? People are disappearing?’

‘No, he…I-I’m kinda busy right now, I gotta lotta...lotta cases.’

‘I could help--’

Foggy shuts his office door.

_Matt wouldn’t. Would never kill._

Sure, he’d probably wanted to, but Matt was stubborn. And murder was the line he’d decided he wouldn’t cross. Comas were cool, brain damage was fine, but murder -- hell, no.  
That was what these disappearances meant though, wasn’t it? Brett had said it himself, the criminals weren’t ending up in the hospitals anymore.

Matt -- if it was Matt, and Foggy isn’t one-hundred-per-cent sold on that idea -- had crossed the line.

But then where are the bodies? Someone should have found at least one of them by now -- a bloated purse-snatcher surfacing in the Hudson, pieces of gangbanger discovered in dumpsters. It doesn’t make sense.

\--

He almost calls Karen.

If she’s looking into this (like he knows she is) then she’ll know. There have to be bodies. Even if Daredevil had beaten the shit out of these people, then given them bus fare and told them to get the hell out of town, there would be traces. Mothers would have been texted, friends and associates reassured. They wouldn’t simply have dropped off the face of the earth.

He stops himself though, reminds himself that he _doesn’t_ want to know. None of it matters. He’s not a part of this vigilante bullshit, it’s not his problem.

\--

Then a stockbroker from Chelsea disappears while in the Kitchen, and the media swoop in. The Daredevil connection isn’t made immediately -- because Daredevil only takes out criminals, after all, and the family’s rich enough in money and connections to make the press think twice about making that leap.

But days pass with no ransom demand, no body, no sightings. And then a witness comes forward and Foggy’s just numb with disgust when the publicity machine kicks into overdrive in its need to discredit her. They talk about her drug addictions, her status as a runaway, suggest the relationship was consensual.

_Even if it was_, Foggy thinks, _that still makes it statutory rape._

Anything and everything, except that she’s a trafficked and traumatised fifteen-year-old girl, being pimped out so she doesn’t end up on the street.

But she’s the one who brings Daredevil’s name into it.

The stockbroker was hurting her, she says. Daredevil came and took him away.

Her story appears in a bare handful of articles on websites -- nothing printed on paper -- before it’s hushed up.

There’s nothing about claws, but, the girl says, the lightbulb blew split seconds after Daredevil entered the room. She saw him though, silhouetted against the window, saw the horns and knew. She curled up in the corner, covered her eyes and waited for the sounds to stop. When they did, she was alone.

As a witness statement, there are weaknesses. In court, Foggy’s sure most lawyers could establish doubt over identification, even without calling her a lying, junkie whore, just over the fact that the room was dark.

But Foggy isn’t in court, and he knows. Matt wouldn’t let another girl cry, not in his city.

After they’ve torn the poor girl’s credibility to shreds, the press jump on Daredevil. Headlines cry ‘who is safe from a vigilante gone rogue?’. There’s outrage. ‘Is ‘Daredevil’ a serial killer?’ one paper asks. One journalist puts forth a tally of the disappearances, and Foggy pales at the numbers.

Yup, definitely serial killer numbers.

\--

The police are all on high alert -- probably been told to shoot on sight. And that shouldn’t bother Foggy like it does. Because it’s not Matt. He’s established this fact already. He has to keep reminding himself of that.

But still he finds himself lying awake, listening for sirens, waiting to hear the gunshots -- _the_ gunshot which puts Daredevil to rest, again.

\-- 

It doesn’t happen, of course. 

The Devil is like smoke. 

And his work goes on. 

\-- 

Daredevil’s moved on from the petty, street-level criminals it seems. Either they’re all gone, or the ones left have learnt not to commit crimes in Hell’s Kitchen. Any other neighbourhood is fair game; rape, pillage and murder is perfectly acceptable in Midtown, Chelsea, the East Village, but Hell’s Kitchen belongs to the Devil. 

The gangs migrate, and the ones who stay, too stubborn to leave a home they’ve known for decades, keep their heads down or face the consequences. 

They disappear from their homes, sometimes even from their beds without their wives or girlfriends any the wiser. Guns sit by, fully loaded. No chance to get a shot off, to go down with a certain gangster dignity. 

There’s talk of contracts taken out, but apparently no hitman will take the job. There are ghost stories going around, and each one Foggy hears fills him with dread. 

‘...really is the Devil…’ 

‘...had these long fingers, or claws maybe…’ 

‘...leapt over the roof like a cat…’ 

‘...tore the guy’s eyes out and swallowed them like grapes! No bullshit, man…’ 

He doesn’t believe everything he hears, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before the stories spread and people get curious. Before they start seeking out the Devil in his home. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for some gruesome imagery. ;)

Karen looks pale.

Her lips are chapped and there are dark circles under her eyes.

‘The journalist life treating you well?’ asks Foggy as he sits down opposite her.

‘Busy. Got to prove myself. I...Ellison, my editor, he gave me Ben’s office after that last story I wrote.’

The smile on her face is bittersweet, tinged with guilt. A determination to do right by the man whose chair she will now sit in every day.

‘So, this Daredevil stuff, it’s getting crazy,’ Foggy says.

The waitress comes over and pours him coffee, refills Karen’s cup. She asks for an orange juice, jokes about needing the vitamins.

‘Yeah. It’s so quiet at night now,’ she says, smiling. It’s uneasy though.

‘Have you, uh, found out anything?’

She sighs.

‘Lots of people who’ve seen him. They all describe...describe the same kind of things. Claws. Weird body movements. One person said there was something up with his eyes, that they were just black holes, nothing there. No one...no one I talked to heard him speak. Never said a word to any of them.’

‘Probably not much time to speak, what with all the punching.’

‘There’s a rumour going ‘round,’ she says, with a smile pulling at her lips. ‘About how to summon him. It goes like this. You cover your eyes and say Daredevil three times. Then you quickly make the sign of a cross, so he doesn’t drag you back to Hell with him when he appears.’

Foggy forces a smile to match hers.

‘Wow, people are really running with this whole Devil thing. Do they forget the media started that? He was just a guy in a black shirt and pants with a blindfold tied over his face when he started out -- nothing demonic about that. So, have you tried that summoning thing?’

Karen shakes her head, and it’s not what Foggy expects. He expected her to have tried it and dismissed it already.

‘You don’t think it actually works?’ he says.

Karen shakes her head again, before he’s even finished speaking.

‘No, no. Of course not.’ But the hand that reaches out to draw her glass of juice closer is shaking. ‘But I, uh, need to do it. For research.’

‘We could do it together?’

It’s out of Foggy’s mouth before he can stop to think how it sounds, and worse still what it means. He thinks of the glimpsed figure in that alleyway. About all the stories of claws and missing eyes. And he thinks of Matt.

But Karen’s smiling.

‘Sure. Sounds good. Is tonight okay for you? I, uh, need to get this story finished. I suggested to Ellison I could do a piece on the urban legends, the mythology, springing up around Daredevil.’

‘Uh, yeah. I’m not doing anything. Tonight’s...tonight’s fine.’

Tonight is not fine. He’ll have to call Marci, say he’s helping Karen with something. He’s always had a problem saying no to Karen. Marci’ll be pissed, but hopefully she’ll forgive him with enough grovelling.

They agree to meet at Foggy’s place, at sunset.

‘Aren’t you supposed to do these sort of things at midnight? Y’know, the witching hour?’ Foggy says, trying to lighten the mood and get rid of some of the dread pooling in his stomach.

‘And bother him right in the middle of his shift? No thanks,’ Karen says. There’s still something tense about her smile, her banter. And Foggy thinks he sees a fear not unlike his own.

Of what will happen if the Devil answers their call.

\--

Karen’s punctual. And she brings food -- Chinese take-out. Makes it feel more like a casual night-in than a sinister exploration of infernal powers.

Neither of them have much appetite -- Foggy comments that it feels a little like a last meal. It doesn’t sound quite like a joke.

‘So, how do we do this?’ Foggy says, once they’ve both given up on their plates. ‘Do we have to light candles, or stand in front of a mirror?’

Karen shakes her head, sliding off the couch and sitting cross-legged on the floor. She beckons for Foggy to do the same, but opposite her.

The food Foggy’s eaten sits heavily in his stomach as he sits.

‘First, we close our eyes.’

Foggy does.

‘Then we bring our hands up, and over our eyes, palms downwards.’

He remembers that night at Elena’s, the night of the bombings, the night Karen got Foggy to feel her face. So she knew what it would be like to be Matt, ‘seeing’ her with his hands. Except Matt could see her just fine, in more detail than she knew.

‘Next, we say his name three times. And as you finish the last one you cross yourself. Forehead, chest, left, right. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

The whole thing feels like a slumber party game. It’s hard to take it seriously.

_And yet…_

And yet Foggy can feel the hairs on his arms standing on end.

He stutters on the first ‘Daredevil’, gets into rhythm on the second. He’s glad there’s not a break between them, just enough time to breathe and then onto the next.

They finish up, and Foggy’s hand moves so fast through the points of the cross he ends up doing it again. Just to make sure he’s got it right.

‘Uh, are we s’posed to open our eyes now?’ Foggy asks, just to break the silence.

_What if he’s there?_

What if Foggy opens his eyes and Matt, dead Matt, is standing there behind Karen? Foggy’ll pee his pants is what. Foggy’ll scream like a little girl.

‘Yeah,’ Karen says, with a little laugh. A laugh of relief. Like she thought maybe, just maybe, it would work too. ‘Yeah, go ahead.’

There’s a bang from behind him, and Foggy jumps.

‘What was that?’ Karen says. She’s got the glint back, that determined look that says she’s not gonna stop until she’s got to the truth. No matter how scary or dangerous it gets.

And Foggy knows what he heard.

The trunk, banging against his closet door.

‘Probably my next-door neighbour. He, uh, has anger issues. Like to punch the walls sometimes. His sense of timing is impeccable, huh?’

Believe me, please, believe me.

She does. Because Foggy doesn’t lie, as far as she knows. And there’s hardly a week that goes by that Foggy doesn’t think of what would have happened if he’d told Karen the truth right at the start.

She sighs and rubs her knees.

‘Well, that went about how I expected.’

And Foggy thinks she’s actually disappointed. Had maybe been hoping for the Man in the Mask to appear in a puff of smoke with a suave, devilish grin.

Karen’s getting up. They both have work lives, no longer as flexible or understanding as before.

Foggy doesn’t want her to go, but he also doesn’t want her around when he opens the closet. As he stands by the door, saying goodbye, Foggy hears something which may or may not be the latch on the trunk squeaking open.

\--

It takes him about an hour and a stiff drink (or two) to work up the courage.

There haven’t been any more noises since Karen left, but Foggy has also been staying as far away from the closet as he can get.

Every light in the place is on, and Foggy’s phone is in his pocket. He’s pretty sure 911 isn’t going to be able to do shit in this situation, but it makes him feel just a bit better.

_Just fucking do it_, he tells himself. Swings his arms a few times. Breathes in and out.

He yanks the doors open like they’re a loose tooth. Gone before the pain hits.

There’s no red eyes, nothing grabs him.

At his feet is the trunk. And Foggy almost collapses in relief when he realises it’s closed.

But it’s not where he left it, shoved to the back. It sits almost on the threshold of the closet.

Like it wants out.

Foggy doesn’t want to touch it. Really doesn’t want to touch it. Isn’t convinced it won’t open up and suck him into some cold, dark pocket dimension and keep him there forever if he touches it.

So he gets a broom and shoves it back into the depths of the closet.

‘Stay,’ he mutters, shutting the door on it once again.

\--

The nightmare which follows starts like a lot of Foggy’s dreams do these days. With the graveyard. With his slow progress among the stones, looking for one in particular.

_Matt._

No sooner does he think it and he’s there, arms deep in the mud, scraping the dirt away in handfuls.

He’s already a passenger, at this point. Can only wait and watch. He’ll dig down until he hits wood, until his nails have left scars on the coffin lid.

He’ll open it up, and there’ll be Matt. Exactly as Foggy last saw him. Sometimes the dream will stop here, breaking apart into disjointed thoughts, threads of feelings.

Other times, and thankfully so far they have been few, Foggy will reach in and touch Matt. Will sink his hands inside his ribcage and feel his withered heart, will run his fingers through his rotted organs, like he’s sifting through fall leaves. He’ll go further and further, until he’s in the coffin too, looking up at himself. Foggy hates that moment most of all -- it feels like being on a boat as it capsizes, unable to breathe and trapped.

This time, when he opens the coffin, it’s not the memory of Matt he sees.

The coffin is empty but for the lining -- a lining made up of skin, human skin of a single shade and, Foggy thinks, a single person. Bruises and scars pattern it.

Foggy’s hands stretch out, touch the tapestry of skin and he feels something pressing back. The pressure of a pair of lungs.

The coffin is filling with blood, oozing from a over a dozen separate wounds. It pools over Foggy’s hand, swallowing up his fingertips, his knuckles, all the way up to his wrist.

It feels silky, warm, sucking him in until he’s waist deep in it.

He wants to wake up now. Doesn’t want to experience what comes next -- the moment of the capsize when he’ll get to see the look of horror on his face.

If he could he’s close his eyes, but it’s a dream and his eyes are already shut.

\--

In the morning Foggy sits up and stares, slack-jawed, at the closet. The memories are already fading, the only image remaining is that of a red silk-lined coffin. Empty but...also not. There’s an impression of wrongness, of something that simply should not be.

He shifts, ready to get out of bed, and something hits the floor with a thud.

Foggy leans over, peering over the side of the bed.

His bloodstained wallet is lying on the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

Foggy spends the next week at Marci’s.

She doesn’t ask for an explanation -- doesn’t ask if this means he’s moving in for good.

He can’t exactly tell her that his apartment is being haunted by Daredevil. She’d march him right over to some expensive, private mental clinic herself.

He should just burn the trunk and be done with it. Or load it up with cement and throw it in the Hudson. Both would destroy any potential evidence linking it to him. But Foggy’s not convinced the kevlar-type material will burn, at least not at the temperatures he’d have access to. If only there was a volcano within walking distance, all his problems would be solved.

Another thought is burying the trunk with Matt. It’s his stuff after all, and maybe if Foggy doesn’t have the trunk anymore then Matt’s...whatever it is will leave him the hell alone.

But Foggy baulks at the idea of digging Matt up again. And anything else feels...disloyal. Matt left the trunk to Foggy, and maybe that means it’s Foggy’s to dispose of, maybe it was just a pragmatic decision -- a way for Matt to keep his secret even from beyond the grave.

\--

The first thing he does when he returns to his apartment is check the closet.

The trunk is there, it hasn’t moved, and maybe Foggy was kind of hoping it would have vanished of its own accord. Grown legs and walked away.

He looks at the photograph of Matt on the dresser.

‘Why are you doing this to me, Matt?’ he asks.

He’s tired, not sleeping right. Sick of this fear always sitting in his gut, sick _with_ it. Marci’s noticed it, the people at work too.

There’s no answer to his question, no immediate sign. But that night is one of the most restful he’s had in months -- no dreams, no oppressive feeling leaking from the closet.  
When Foggy goes to get clothes out of the closet, the trunk is near the back, the edge peeking out under an old winter sweater. Apologetic -- if an inanimate (_or so you think!_) object can look apologetic.

Foggy almost expects to find _Sorry Foggy_ scrawled on his bathroom mirror after he showers. Or written up fresh in bad guy blood on one of the walls.

He resists the urge to say ‘Thanks, Matt’ as he passes by the dresser again.

\--

It was only a matter of time before Daredevil got on someone’s radar.

Foggy looks up one night as he walks home and sees Iron Man streaking across the sky. He runs (okay, he jogs) the rest of the way home and checks his laptop for the local news.

There’s nothing yet, and Foggy spends several hours, until sheer exhaustion catches up with him around 3AM, listening out for the sounds of a battle.

The next day, he checks a few blogs -- ones dedicated to all things Avengers -- and finds a recent post of an Iron Man sighting in Hell’s Kitchen.

Just that. Just him.

Maybe Ma--Daredevil kept his head down.

Or maybe Stark was only trying to gather information. This time.

Foggy keeps an eye on the skies now, as well as the rooftops and alleyways.

\--

Foggy knows it’s bad when he finds himself face to face with Tony Stark, sitting (and Foggy hadn’t even offered him a seat -- Stark had just sat) in a chair opposite his desk.

A red-haired woman, who Foggy has a horrible, sinking feeling is the Black Widow, is standing by his door, arms folded. His offer of a chair to her is politely declined.

Foggy assumes it’d be suspicious of him to throw up, which is really kinda what his stomach wants to do right now, so he tries to push the urge back.

‘Uhm...W-what can I do for you?’ he says, trying to put as much confidence into it as he can, like unannounced visits from instantly recognisable billionaires is just another day in the life of Foggy Nelson, hotshot defence attorney.

‘This is about Daredevil,’ Stark says.

Black Widow’s probably watching his face, probably analysing every micro-expression. Foggy’s one consolation is that they probably wouldn’t believe him even if he told them the truth.

‘Yeah. He provided my partner and I with enough evidence to bring down Wilson Fisk. I don’t know who he is, if that’s what you want to know. He didn’t exactly give me his life story.’

Stark’s looking at him and Foggy tries not to think about how much he might know. Maybe he knows Matt is/was Daredevil already. Maybe he thinks Matt faked his death, that Foggy helped and he and Black Widow are here to force a confession out of him.

‘You met him though. Saw him in the flesh, as it were?’

‘Sure. It was dark and he had his mask on the whole time, but sure, we met him.’

‘Was there anything unusual about him? Any odd mannerisms you remember?’

‘He seemed normal enough to me. Well, as normal as you can be when you---uh, when you…’

_When you put on a costume and go out and fight crime._

Probably not the best thing to do in a room with two prominent superheroes.

‘...when you’re a vigilante,’ he finishes. ‘Why--why do you want to know about him?’

He hopes it comes off as the suspicion of a born-and-bred denizen Hell’s Kitchen, protective over their local vigilante, and not from someone who’s in over their heads and shit-scared already.

‘Superhero welfare check,’ Stark says.

Foggy does his best not to laugh.

‘Well, I can’t tell you anything that’ll help you find him. You’re better off just picking a roof and yelling his name -- he’ll turn up eventually. If he wants to talk to you. Did you need anything else?’

‘Have you seen Daredevil at all recently?’

Foggy almost jumps when Black Widow speaks -- he’d forgotten she was there.

Honesty is kinda still the best policy here -- although Foggy’s lied several times already.

_You know where he is. You know exactly where he is. In his grave, and your closet._

‘Uh, yeah. Actually he saved me from a mugger about two or three months back.’

The mugging he never reported.

‘Did you notice anything unusual about him that time?’

‘He didn’t...we didn’t exactly have much time to chat. I...I got out of there. Didn’t want to get in his way. I didn’t notice any claws, if that’s what you’re asking.’

There’s a quick shared glance between Stark and Black Widow, and Foggy’s not sure if he’s made a mistake. But he knows that if Daredevil was still Matt, alive Matt with just his ninja training and his freaky super-senses, then these people wouldn’t be here asking him questions.

‘I know...I know something’s happening to him. Something weird. I don’t know what it is, but if you have some way of stopping it then…’

He stops himself before he moves from concerned citizen into haunted, grieving partner and best friend.

‘We’ll do our best,’ Stark says.


	9. Chapter 9

The increased Avengers presence doesn’t go unmarked.

There’s nothing in the local news, but online the rumours are flying. The discussion seems to split along two lines -- one half is a flurry of excitement at the thought of a ‘team-up’ between Daredevil and the Avengers. Maybe the reason Iron Man’s been hanging around Hell’s Kitchen is ‘cus he wants Daredevil to join the team? OMG yes plz!

The other side are rather more pragmatic. They think Iron Man is there to take Daredevil down.

Here the debate splinters yet again. It’s too much for him to keep track of online, but Foggy hears sides of it he’s out and about in Hell’s Kitchen. In a local deli, as he’s picking up something for dinner that night (he can’t order take-out for a fourth night in a row, he just can’t), he overhears a pair of old men talking.

‘...it’s about time is all I can say. Something not right about the guy. He’s one of those mutants or something.’

‘Hey, hey, he’s been good to this neighbourhood. My place got robbed three times the year before he showed up. Now, nothing. I reckon I could even leave the door unlocked...And who’s this guy looking for him? Tony Stark. You mark my words, the guy’s a businessman -- only reason he’s looking for Daredveil is ‘cus there’s something in it for him. He don’t want other guys running ‘round clearing up crime without him, doing a better job of it even! Way I hear it, Daredevil’s never hurt a guy that didn’t deserve it. Can Stark say the same?’

At a bus stop, a woman talks about sending her child to live with his grandma. She still has nightmares about The Incident -- the thought of the Avengers in Hell’s Kitchen brings back memories of buildings falling, of monsters in the streets.

Foggy doesn’t hear anyone out-and-out baying for Daredevil’s blood, for Iron Man and Captain America to beat him to a pulp and cart him off to some superhero jail somewhere, but he knows they must be there.

Foggy keeps trying to tell himself they won’t do that. They’re the good guys.

But what the hell does that make Matt?

\--

There’s a video on social media. The news stations haven’t picked it up yet, but Foggy knows it’s only a matter of time.

It’s filmed on a phone, at night, so the quality is pretty awful. There’s no mistaking Iron Man though.

Foggy misses Daredevil the first three times he plays it. Then he goes down and checks the comments, comes back armed with a timestamp and a place to look, and he sees it. The little cluster of pixels which flits out of shot -- the shape of a head and shoulders -- as Iron Man approaches with a hand extended.

With the suit on it’s impossible to tell what the pause means -- as Stark gets closer and Matt moves, he stops. Freezes with his hand still held out.

He must know, must’ve seen that there’s something wrong with the shape, the movements. Not human. Not a mutant, or an ‘enhanced’ or whatever it is they’re calling people with superpowers these days. Something else. Something _wrong_.

\--

The next night is when the Avengers get serious.

There are public warnings to stay indoors, delivered in typical Stark style by a fleet of robots -- like the guy hasn’t learned his lesson from all the shit that went down in Sokovia.

Official information is lacking, but online the waters boil with theories and suppositions. Foggy sees flashes of outrage -- the people of Hell’s Kitchen know exactly why the Avengers are here, to take their local vigilante (hero!) away. Some take it as a personal affront, an implication that not being robbed/beaten/stabbed/shot/raped was somehow wrong, somehow outside the natural order. If the person who saved them is the bad guy, then who are they in this stubbornly complex moral tapestry?

A few people comment on the change in Daredevil -- there’s an uneasiness as people share experiences. A pre-death save vs a post-death one. The differences are startling.

One person suggests Daredevil’s been hit with a virus of some kind, something cooked up by a secret supervillain and he’s the guinea pig -- that the Avengers are just here to help.

It doesn’t take long before Foggy can’t stand to read anymore -- before he starts sobbing.

He pulls a pillow over his head so he can’t hear the thunder.

\--

The restrictions are lifted the next morning -- people need to work, need to go out, and Daredevil’s a nocturnal creature after all. Besides, keeping a whole neighbourhood on lockdown is a surefire way to piss them off.

Foggy half-expects to be accosted on his way to work by Iron Man or Black Widow, or some other member of the Avengers (he really hopes they’ve got the sense to keep the Hulk way out of this) but he’s not.

He makes it work and gets questioned instead by half a dozen skilled attorneys on the exact events of last night.

Marci asks if he wants to stay at hers until the Avengers are done with Daredevil. ‘Things could get messy,’ she says, and Foggy knows she’s remembering The Incident too.

But Foggy can’t.

‘It’s kinda exciting,’ he lies, shrugging as he tries to explain why he would want to stay in a potential war-zone when his sorta-girlfriend has just offered him a way out.

\--

They’re being careful, Foggy can tell.

There’s no explosions, no sounds of bricks shattering and tumbling. Just the thunder. There are black-outs, of course. A stray bolt hitting the wrong pylon. It’s an irritation, but Foggy and all the other residents know it could be so, so much worse.

As Foggy lies in bed, in deeper than normal darkness, he thinks of Matt. Tries to warn him. Because who knows, maybe being dead gave him extra ghost powers and maybe (fingers-crossed) that includes telepathy?

And it seems like it works, because a week passes and the Avengers are still in Hell’s Kitchen. Still chasing shadows.

_Stay safe, Matt. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transitional chapter is transitional.


	10. Chapter 10

Shattering glass.

Foggy’s heart sinks as he sits up. He waits, but hears nothing else.

He kicks off the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. There’s a faint crinkling of glass, like someone’s moving over the shards.

‘Hello…?’ he calls.

He moves quicker now, stumbling across his bedroom floor and out.

There’s a figure curled up on his living room floor. He can see it outlined in the spilled-over light from outside. It moves, shivering, and Foggy’s fingers brush the lightswitch.

He tries to see if he can hear it breathing -- if it even needs to breathe -- but his heartbeat is pounding too loud in his head.

He flicks the switch and light pours down on the thing on the floor.

It doesn’t react. Of course it doesn’t. It doesn’t need light.

But it definitely hears the click of the switch, maybe even the hum of the electricity flowing through the wires.

It raises its head and Foggy falls back, just enough sense remaining to clamp both hands over his mouth to crush down the scream.

\--

He checks out for maybe about a minute.

_No eyes. It’s got no eyes._

Fucking hell it’s just like the stories.

He breathes in deep a few times, tries to get as close to calm as he’s gonna manage right now and pulls up the courage to move closer, crawling across the floor.

It’s worse the closer he gets.

‘Oh Matty...Jesus, Jesus fuck.’

It makes a sound, a choked off, barely human whine, and curls in closer on itself.

The shape of it is wrong, elongated and skinny -- so skinny. He can see the notches of its spine through its red-tinted hide as it curls up like a dog.

He follows an arm and there are the claws, black and with the tips pressed into its flesh where it hugs itself.

But the face is the worst, because it looks so familiar. Closer to the photograph in Foggy’s room than the corpse buried six feet down.

It _looks_ like Matt.

Except for the eyes.

It’s like something Foggy imagined when he was ten years old and he heard about Matthew Murdock for the first time. Foggy hadn’t understood how you got blinded pushing someone out of the way of a truck. He’d asked Matt about it a few weeks after they started rooming -- Matt didn’t seem to mind Foggy’s questions and comments, his frequent missteps, so, emboldened by a (small) quantity of alcohol, Foggy had taken the plunge. Matt, bless him, explained about the chemicals and also reminded him later, when they got much drunker, that, yes, Foggy, he knew what masturbation was (Foggy was finding it harder to cope with the whole ‘raised by nuns’ thing than the whole blind thing).

But ten year old Foggy was just a dumb kid raised on a diet of cartoons and with a healthy imagination.

He’d imagined Matt getting hit so hard his eyeballs just flew right outta his skull and landed on the ground. No blood, just empty sockets left behind. Foggy remembered wondering how you were s’posed to cry if you didn’t have eyes anymore.

The creature on the floor seems to be managing somehow.

Its cheeks are damp, and the expression on its face is so totally, one-hundred-per-cent Matt. Stubbornly trying to hang on, to hold it all back.

There are wounds all over its body. Darkened burn marks, some broken open to show pink flesh underneath. Cuts oozing a thick, dark substance which looks more like molasses than blood. Even an arrow still embedded in its flank, going between ribs which are all too prominent under its strangely mottled skin.

It lets out another whine, just the wrong side of human.

Foggy’s on his knees.

Whatever it is, it’s in pain.

‘Alright. Okay...okay, what do you need? Just...let me know and I’ll…’

The thing reaches up, weakly, for the arrow in its side.

Foggy wants to throw up.

‘Okay, h-hold on, I need to get some stuff. Just stay right there, okay?’

Stuff like a licensed nurse, or maybe a horde of Men in Black types to carry away the living nightmare currently bleeding onto his carpet, to give him drugs capable of blocking this entire night from his mind.

Foggy goes to the bathroom and opens up the first aid kit. It mostly has band-aids, some ointment and painkillers -- it’s stocked for Foggy-style medical emergencies, not someone getting their ass kicked by the fucking Avengers.

He takes it anyway, and some towels.

As he leaves he pauses and glances towards the bedroom.

The trunk is sitting where he last saw it, and it’s light as he pulls it towards him. But something’s rattling around inside. Lots of small somethings.

_Teeth_, he thinks, his fingers reaching for the latch.

At first it’s hard to tell what the fragments are -- hard to tell what they’re even made from. Certainly not the little shards of ivory he was expecting. But then he sees a larger piece with the horn still attached, and he knows it’s Matt’s mask. Shattered into pieces, as if struck by a gigantic hammer, or hit point-blank by the blast of a repulsor. Or even just a punch from a superpowered fist.

He shuts the lid and hurries back to the living room.

\--

Foggy has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s pretty sure that when confronted with a deeply embedded object the best course of action is not to yank that son-of-a-bitch out and hope for the best. No, he should be calling a professional to deal with this shit.

He’s wearing gloves and there’s a thin towel wrapped around the shaft to give him some grip.

‘This’ll probably hurt a lot. So, please don’t rip my throat out when it does.’

It makes a noise, different from the groans and whines of pain.

‘Ff--fuh--fo.’

Foggy tightens his grip and counts down from three.

\--

They’re both panting when it’s over.

The arrowhead is barbed, with an odd patina to the metal. And tiny chunks of flesh still clinging to it.

Foggy is covered in dark, syrupy blood. His carpet looks like a crime scene. He sets the arrow down and looks at the mess he’s made of Daredevil’s side.

‘D-do you want me to stitch you up?’

He’s desperately hoping for a no. Foggy didn’t have a boxer father to practice on -- and he was too mad at Matt to really watch Claire as she closed up his wounds that one time. He could probably muddle through it but he--

A head shake.

Relief. At least until Foggy looks at the wound and sees the edges seeming to move -- like a timelapse of a spider spinning a web, the hole grows smaller.

He wants to puke again.

The healing skin is grey at first, cold and dead looking. But red gradually seeps into it, creeping up until there’s only a small circle of fragile, grey skin. A scar of sorts.

Foggy kind of wants to touch it, just to see what it’d feel like. Skin, or the fabric of Matt’s suit.

But when it reaches towards him, Foggy flinches, scrambles back away from those dark claws with his heart pounding.

And then the noise it makes -- a moan so miserable Foggy feels sorry for it, actually apologises to it.

It makes Foggy ask the thing he’s been dreading, the thing he’s acknowledged, accepted and then rejected time and again.

‘Matty?’

More tears come seeping out of those empty sockets. It raises its hands to its head, raking its claws through its hair, body curling up like it wants to hide.

‘Fuh...Foh...Fog-a…’

It smells like singed flesh, and mud, blood and just _death_. The smells of a body gone wrong, breaking down in front of him.

Foggy hugs Matt anyway. Ignores the pricking of claws. Feels the way it seeks out his heartbeat, rubbing its face against Foggy’s chest. He can feel the dampness from its tears -- Matt’s tears.

‘I missed you, buddy,’ Foggy says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that showing the monster in a horror story can sometimes reduce their overall scariness, but I felt like these guys needed to have their moment.


End file.
